


Little Talks

by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 02:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17458700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: "Valentine's Day is different. Valentine's Day is one she'll never forget. Valentine's Day is just for them."





	Little Talks

**Author's Note:**

> This is angsty. I'm sorry! Also, it's AU...don't go being the canon police, aight? ;)

It isn’t often that they have the chance for a proper date.

Those require planning. Forethought. _Preparation_. Ginny’s never been much of a planner, if she’s being honest; that's _Harry's_  thing.

But Valentine’s Day is different. Valentine’s Day is one she’ll never forget. _Valentine’s Day_ is just for them.

“You look incredible.” His words interrupt her thoughts as she stands in front of their mirror. She smiles and lets her hands run over the black satin stretched taut over her bust and hips.

“Don’t look so bad yourself,” Ginny whispers back, although her eyes never leave her own reflection. She doesn’t need to see him to confirm as much; she _knows_ he looks stunning.

He chuckles, and she can almost feel his warm breath playing across her neck. “I guess that’s a good thing,” Harry murmurs. “Cause for better or worse, you’re stuck with me.”

Ginny arches an eyebrow. “Think you might get lucky tonight, Potter?” She feels him staring at the creamy skin below her neck, at the freckled cleavage pushed over the top of her black satin gown. 

“No,” Harry replies, and even before he says it, she knows what’s coming next: “I _know_ I’ll get lucky.”

She tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “You seem rather confident.”

“Well, I've been spoiled a long time, you see.”

She responds with a besotted smile, one that wrinkles the corners of her eyes. But nevertheless, they have _plans_ — ones they follow every year.

Ginny shakes her head. “We’d better get going.”

Harry sighs. This has never been his idea of fun. “Are you sure we even _need_ to go out? We’re  _so_ close to the bed and—“

“— _No_ ,” she admonishes, a giggle dancing in her voice.

Then Ginny feels a breeze as something akin to ice twists up her spine. She pulls back, staring at her hands. The mood has shifted, hasn’t it? Suddenly, it’s not so playful.

“No,” she reaffirms, shaking her head. “We...we _need_ to.”

Harry doesn’t respond, but she knows he agrees; like always, his concurrence is both unspoken and entirely understood. It’s always been that way, she thinks. _Always_.

Ginny turns her eyes back to the mirror. Yes... _she’s ready_. 

She apparates them to Godric’s Hollow, a rose clutched in her fist. It might seem a little maudlin and ridiculous, but it’s their ritual. Her black heels touch down on the stone path, and Harry instinctively steadies her. She flashes a wry smile. She’s never been particularly balanced in heels; they’re _only_ for special occasions.

Of course, Harry still has to plead his case one final time. “Do we _have_ to do this part?” 

Ginny gives a curt nod: _Yes. Once a year...we must._

Harry doesn’t try to fight her; she knows he won't ask again. 

“Right then,” she whispers. “ _It’s time._ ”

Ginny takes two steps forward, only stopping when the tips of her shoes tap white marble. She shudders in the February chill and stands there for a few moments until she finally, _finally_ summons the strength to look down.

Her whole body relaxes the second she lays eyes on him.

“Harry,” she whispers, gazing at the boyish resemblance engraved in stone. He’s always been handsome, of course...but she likes to think he looks much older now. Perhaps there are flecks of gray near his ears or a few laugh lines around his mouth. The exact details change depending on the day, but Ginny allows herself this luxury; for the past ten years, _she’s_ been the only one who’s kept him alive.

She shakes her head a little sadly. You’d have thought sacrificing yourself at 17 would earn a bloke a little more respect.

As soon as it crosses her mind, Harry brings it up.

“One day you’re going to have to come to terms with all of this, love.” His voice is a whisper in her ear, a murmur carried on the breeze. She blinks down at his face, the one posed in a perpetual grin. Ginny swallows the lump in her throat and traces her fingers across the cross-hatched marble, against the notches and dips of his messy black hair. Thank Merlin she’d insisted on his face for his memorial. _Thank Merlin_ …

He cuts into her thoughts with the same reminder he’s given her a thousand times. “You’ve loads of other pictures, Ginny. You don’t need to—”

She clears her throat and places the rose on the divot beneath his engraving. “That’s _enough_ from you, thanks.”

A stiff breeze blows through the cemetery and Ginny draws her cloak more tightly. The graves to her left catch her eye; she gives a faint smile to her would-be in-laws and idly wonders why they’ve never visited her. Not like _Harry_ has.

“Have I ever been here, though?”

This time his voice is an echo whispered across a lake, distorted and warbled by the time it reaches the shore. Ginny slams her eyes shut; she hates it when he does this. 

“It’s _Valentine’s Day_ ,” she grits, willing herself not to cry. This is one of the few things he’s ever insensitive about. It’s also the thing that hurts her the most. Ginny blinks away a mutinous tear. “ _Please_ , Harry. Not today.”

He sighs, but she’s gotten through; he’s always done everything in his power to stop her tears.

This time, he decides to tell a joke.

“Well,” he says wryly. “I’m not getting any older.”

Ginny snorts, but the exchange gives her pause nonetheless. She doesn’t _need_ to come here to be with him, of course— she never has. But she often hopes he never finds anywhere _else_ to be. 

“So you’ll stay with me, then?” She curses that she sounds like the scared little girl who’d written about toads and blackboards.

But Harry understands. Like _always_ , he understands. And when he speaks next, it’s a promise, a vow, something said with such ferocity she knows he’ll never mention it again.

“ _Until the very end_.”


End file.
